Poetry in daily life

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About my dark nights, gray afternoonsAnd my crows not yet arrived on the fringe,The book is indeed fat , redolent with soundAnd creaks at seams, like a rusty door hinge. Its pages are doors sidestepping to a backyardFilled with trees that look down into the wellFor their shadows eaten up at its bottom.

Shadows fell there by accident, not design. The water is neutral, in its mossy brick stepsShadowy , moss-green and gray towards duskBut generally unresponsive to frogs jumpingFrom crevices where lay entire frog coloniesDeeply brooding in their own crevice shadows.

It looks like the book is not about dark nightsNor about crows not yet arrived nor shadowsRecumbent at the bottom where the pail failsTo reach, touch and shiver waters in ripples. It is not even about frogs libidinously waiting To be written about, stroked on slimy backs.As the book is written it is mostly about itself.